It’s been set here more times than you can count—this old oil lamp, perched on a cedar stump beside the frozen lake. You’ve lit it on foggy mornings and moonless nights. It’s watched paddlers return late from Caribou, and guests step quietly into the cold just to listen to loons or wait for stars.

Tonight, the northern lights rise behind it like smoke from a sacred fire. The dock stretches out into silence, the bay sealed in ice, the horizon caught between winter and wonder. No one tends the lamp now. But its glass catches the glow just the same.

Some lights don’t need flame to shine. Some places hold their own memory of warmth.